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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23346451">Domesticus</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedpoem/pseuds/hauntedpoem'>hauntedpoem</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Maglor through the ages [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works &amp; Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Breakfast, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fourth Age and beyond, M/M, Maglor loves Mairon, Mairon is a spoilt little Maia, Modern Setting, Xenophilia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 04:27:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,071</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23346451</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedpoem/pseuds/hauntedpoem</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The man – no, the creature- across from Maglor at the round table is looking at him with eyes filled with unspeakable pain. It’s a wonder how he can work through that mouthful of bacon. There’s grease travelling down his lower lip. His hand doesn’t leave Mairon's feet to wipe it off.</i><br/>Maglor and Mairon live together in a semblance of domesticity.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Maglor | Makalaurë/Sauron | Mairon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Maglor through the ages [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/635774</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Domesticus</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/21860344">A smaller god</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedpoem/pseuds/hauntedpoem">hauntedpoem</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>It took 15 minutes ... and several cracked eggs.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s 6:53 AM and Maglor turns on the radio on Chill FM.  Immediately, a mix of birdsong and droplets of water falling in slow motion surrounds the kitchen area.</p><p>He takes the cast iron skillet and leaves it on medium on the burner. Preheating is something he does naturally; he has so many things to do in the interim of frying some eggs. He takes the 6 eggs carton out of the fridge, yesterday’s leftovers, the avocados and the bacon. One by one places them on the counter. Squeaky clean and still smelling like apple cider vinegar and Marseille soap.</p><p>Adds olive oil and it sizzles. Breaks four eggs, they land perfectly, sunny side up. Leaves space for the bacon, plenty of slices. Three minutes tops and Maglor takes the eggs out, puts them on a large white plate and then delivers the bacon. He made sure the eggs are not overcooked. He places everything on the large white plate along with a knife and fork and freshly toasted bread from a turquoise relic he found in Shanti’s storage. There’s a large piece of butter partially melted next to it.</p><p>The smell is invading his nostrils. Damn, he could use with a portion like that himself.</p><p>He looks calm. Breathes in, then out, then evenly places a folded piece of paper towel next to the massive plate. He leaves the pepper shaker in place but moves the salt to the left.  Breathes in, breathes out. 7 AM says the alarm cutting through the peaceful birdsong.  Then he yells: “Get the fuck out of bed”, he gulps and then adds a whispered “honey”.</p><p> He opens the can of red beans, puts them in the streamer, cleans them under a cold jet of water, cleans the excess oil from the skillet and ponders between cooking them in there or cleaning the thing. Maglor feels him standing behind him. It’s quite unnerving as it is. His presence always makes Maglor uncomfortable in the morning. He doesn’t know why he continues this anyway… He pretends he doesn’t feel jittery when those pale, freckled arms lace around his waist from behind and he could really do without the feel of teeth sinking into his shoulder as he manoeuvres that hot skillet. Silicone cooking gloves are a joke. He feels the burn through them. His breath hitches, just a bit, otherwise his pulse is still normal.</p><p>On his shoulder, he feels the beginning of a smile forming on the mouth that just bit him. The bastard cannot reach past his shoulder.</p><p>Maglor pushes him gently with his elbow.</p><p>The bastard licks the nape of his neck. He feels his cold nose on his skin. It almost makes him shudder but they’re past the phase where Maglor had to stop himself from cursing every time it happened. He’s puffing hot air at the base of his skull. Maglor shuts his eyes in exasperation. He knows exactly how to rile him up!</p><p>“Eat your fucking eggs, they’ll get cold and then I will have to listen to you complaining all day that your morning is ruined. And then you’ll ruin mine as well…” He says all this as he stirs in the beans and the Mexican mix from last night. Maglor exhales, looks sideways at the clock/ radio. It’s 7:04 AM and the birds are chirping happily around them while surreal flute music harmonizes with them. He’s wearing his crumpled black linen pants, flip flops and an apron. He’s got no excuse. He practically asked for it without a shirt on.</p><p>He turns the fire off and clears the contents of the skillet into a bowl, takes the knife and the avocados, halves them and scoops the unctuous greenness over the sautéed mix.</p><p>Back at the table, green-amber eyes watch him from under a messy fringe of copper hair. It’s still unsettling, seeing him looking so normal with that huge plate in front of him, holding a fork and the butter knife neatly. He takes the spoon and before he motions for the pepper, it’s already pushed into his hand.</p><p>“Thanks, baby”.</p><p>He cannot look him in the eye, not now, anyway. It’s only when he feels the iciness of a foot travelling up and under his wide trouser leg that he almost bites the inside of his cheek.</p><p>“Baby, why don’t you wear those slippers I bought you?”</p><p>The other just sniggers.  “’tis better like this”.</p><p>He lifts the leg into his lap. The motherfucker uncurls his toes appreciatively.</p><p>“I don’t like how you’re getting cold.” He is halfway through his meatless burrito when the other foot settles into his lap. Something’s off, not quite right.</p><p>“Baby, your skin is peeling.”</p><p>The foot is bruised. Maglor can see the veins turning black already.</p><p>“I know, it’s that time of the month.”</p><p>He wants to ask “<em>so soon?</em>” but every time it happens it just takes him by surprise. Sometimes it’s off by a day or three. Sometimes by two whole weeks. It’s always a mystery with Mairon, bursting up in flames and burning to a crisp only to come back with skin so soft and teeth so sharp.</p><p>The man – no, the creature- across from Maglor at the round table is looking at him with eyes filled with unspeakable pain. It’s a wonder how he can work through that mouthful of bacon. There’s grease travelling down his lower lip. His hand doesn’t leave Mairon's feet to wipe it off.</p><p>“Mairon, baby, I’ll stay at home today.”</p><p>“You sure?”</p><p>“Of course, now eat your toast.”</p><p>It’s 7:29 and Maglor just cradles Mairon’s icy feet in his lap as he struggles to keep the knife properly in his hand while spreading the butter over the golden toast.</p><p><em>I have Sauron in my house. He eats all my bacon and I warm his feet under the kitchen table. </em>He breathes out and shuts his eyes. His head already hurts. <em>And he’s my boyfriend.</em></p><p>“You know what? I love you too.” It’s exasperating how passive-aggressive he manages to sound this early in the morning.</p><p>“Babe, stop reading my thoughts.” He regrets saying it out loud anyway. It’s like he admitted to it from the start.</p><p>“I can’t help it. I can barely regulate my own temperature.” Mairon’s face is placid and his lips, although freshly glistening from all the grease he eats have a purple tinge to them.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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